


Keep Your Enemies Closer

by mechanicaljewel



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blow Jobs, Drug Abuse, First Time Bottoming, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Manipulation, Movie: Skyfall (2012), Psychopaths In Love, Rough Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-02-28
Packaged: 2018-05-23 16:01:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6121865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mechanicaljewel/pseuds/mechanicaljewel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond's radio failed and the helicopters never came to Silva's island, so both men have to improvise...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Keep Your Enemies Closer

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madnorthbynorthwest](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madnorthbynorthwest/gifts).



> Other possible warnings: This does probably fall under the broadest definition of "dubious consent"; that "Stockholm Syndrome" tag ain't there for nothing. Aside from that, there is one situation that is consensual on its face but may give you the feeling that it would have been _less_ skeevy if they _had_ taken advantage.
> 
> Also, the "internalized homophobia" tag is pretty much shorthand for "'Straight' dude won't bottom because gay (until he does!)" But even that is pretty much only implied.

“Who says I’m on my own?”

Severine hung limply from the statue, blood dripping from her forehead. Silva’s men lay dead all around them. Bond had one of their Glocks trained on Silva. He just had to keep stalling— _shouldn’t be too much longer, can’t be too much longer…_

The silence stretched between them for what seems like an eon, until Silva commented, “Either your dramatic timing was also a casualty of your mishap in Turkey, or something’s gone wrong with your little radio. And to think I turned off all of my signal jammers for you.”

Bond kept the gun up, the immediate shock of Silva’s pronouncement dissipating quickly. “It happens to lots of guys.”

“Even to you, James? Perish the thought.” Silva shot a wicked glance at him, then sighed theatrically. “We can either stand like this until we turn to stone, or we can get to know each other better over another drink,” he said, gesturing towards the Macallan.

Bond hesitated for a moment, but reasoned that since Silva clearly wanted to be caught, he probably didn’t pose any immediate threat, nor would any force be necessary should the MI6 helicopters show up belatedly. He lowered the gun and strode towards Silva.

Silva looked delighted. “Come, James,” he said, picking up the bottle in one hand and two glasses in the other by their rims, “Let’s continue this conversation in a more civilized environment.”

Leading the way to a different building than the one they had come from, Silva pushed open the door to an immaculate and opulent lobby. Probably a former hotel that he had clearly not let fall into disrepair like the rest of the island. Well, of course he hadn’t—Bond tried to picture Silva sleeping on a camp bed among all the rubble, and it definitely didn’t fit.

Bond shoved all thoughts of Silva in bed from his mind as Silva led him into a lounge. In stark contrast to everything else he’d seen of the island (and the man, for that matter), the color scheme was on the darker side of the spectrum. Mahogany furniture, leather top tables, paneling on the walls, forest green leather wingback chairs, the whole set-up looked like an old posh English gentlemen’s club, with the exception of the chaise lounge in the middle of the room, which was upholstered in a wine-red Chinese-style brocade. There was also a very well-stocked bar all along one wall. _Thank heaven for small mercies_ , Bond thought to himself.

Silva strode over to the chaise lounge and motioned with the bottle for Bond to sit the wingback chair adjacent to its head. He set the glasses on the coffee table between them and filled both. Once Bond was seated, Silva proffered him the rather more generously filled one, looking like he expected Bond to comment. Bond declined to do so but still took the glass. Silva let out a barely audible chuckle before he settled on to the chaise lounge, right arm resting on the head, leaning toward Bond on the pretext of reclining against it.

“ _Ay_ , James,” he sighed pitifully. “I tried to tell you, but I understand how hard it can be to come to terms with…”

“What, pray tell, are you referring to?”

“The fact that Mummy sent you here to die, of course.”

_Says the man who was counting on me to bring him back to her_ , Bond thought better of saying out loud. That was the key to the whole thing, wasn’t it? Bond wondered briefly if Silva had even intended to show his cards like that when the helicopters failed to show up. Better then to use that, keep Silva occupied while he tried to think of another way to get them both off the island.

Half an hour later, Bond was taking him over the head of the chaise lounge, Silva moaning in ecstasy as Bond shoved into him. It was somewhat unsettling, as Bond couldn’t tell if he was faking it or if that was just another part of his whole overall demeanor. Bond did have some pride about his performance, so he reached down to play with Silva’s balls, just to assure himself the moans were genuine.

It’s not like there was much else to do on this godforsaken island.

~~~

That first night, Bond realized he hadn’t completely thought this tactic through. Of course Silva would expect them to share a bed. Bond hadn’t properly slept with anyone since Vesper. Sure, the odd one-night stand here and there whenever the sex had been particularly energetic and there was no helping it, but nothing intentional, habitual. Bond was, he well knew, a cad who preferred to leave once the sex was done. Then again, he reasoned, it would be easier to keep an eye on Silva this way. If he could keep Silva from posting the next five agents’ names on the list next week, M might twig to the fact that he hadn’t completely failed the mission, and perhaps she’d send someone out looking for him again. He tried not to think about how she might just as easily give him up for dead again.

That was easy enough to do as Silva’s hand slithered under the sheets and began stroking him. He lay back and let the heat rising in his body carry him away as Silva rolled over to moan into his neck and rut against his thigh.

~~~

The next morning, as he was rinsing Silva’s spunk off of one of the glass walls in the shower, Bond caught a glimpse of the veritable pharmacy inside of Silva’s medicine cabinet while the man himself was sorting out his meds for the day. He finished rinsing off the shower walls and his cock, then he turned off the water and stepped out of the shower. He began toweling off and asked casually, “Have you got anything good for pain?”

Silva let out a burst of laughter, sharper than usual, maybe even bitter. “James darling, I have only the best for pain.” The emphasis he placed on the last word again caught Bond’s attention, and he filed it away for later. The man’s extensive scarring was obvious to anyone--well, anyone who had seen him naked--but none of them looked all that fresh. “Is your shoulder still bothering you?”

“Nothing’s changed since yesterday,” Bond said simply. Christ, had it only been one day since their ‘game’ with Severine?

“Of course. Paracetamol, then?”

“Sure, if it’s got oxycodone in it.”

Silva chuckled. “Coming right up,” he said, reaching for the Percocet bottle. “You should be careful, though. I hear paracetamol is actually terrible for your liver,” he commented while handing it over.

Bond snorted, “I’m pretty sure my liver has survived worse.”

“I’m sure it has,” Silva replied amusedly. “But I’ve got straight oxys in here too, if you ever decide to play it safe.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Bond said as he knocked out three pills from the bottle and dry-swallowed them. Silva was looking at him strangely, definitely pleased about something, but Bond couldn’t discern what exactly that could be. “Alright, what is it?”

“Hmm? Oh, just, your throat when you swallowed…”

“That’s all I intend to swallow for a while.”

“Oof, you are so cruel to me, James. But I was actually thinking more about what comes before that. Or rather, what happens before someone comes.”

“Were you now?”

“Mmm,” Silva purred affirmatively. “You know when you’ve got someone lying on their back, head hanging off the bed, their mouth open, throat relaxed and ready…the way their neck bulges as you slide your cock in and out…” he trailed off and bit his lip, staring at Bond’s neck. Before Bond could protest Silva’s thought process, Silva asked, “Would you like to see my throat like that, James?”

Who could say no to that, really?

~~~

“James, you need to relax, you're so wound up. I refuse to take it as a commentary on my technique,” Silva said from between Bond's thighs four days later.

“You sure about that?” Bond deflected.

“You don’t seem the type to be shy about instructing me otherwise. Or simply holding onto my head and fucking my mouth as you saw fit."

“Well, when you put it that way…” Bond said before grabbing a handful of Silva’s hair and pushing his mouth back down on his cock. Silva grunted appreciatively, working his tongue along Bond’s shaft while Bond set a brutal pace, pumping his head up and down.

Two days later, he woke up in their bed to the sound of a British news broadcast from the flatscreen on the other side of the room.

“…It has been over one week since a list of embedded NATO agents was posted on YouTube, promising five more every week, but so far nothing has appeared. MI6 would not comment directly on the matter, but reminds the British public that anyone who threatens our national security will be dealt with severely.”

Silva laughed from his chair positioned right in front of the television. He turned around to look at Bond and saw he was awake. “They don’t know the half of it,” he commented hoarsely. “My throat is still raw from pounding you gave it that day. Perhaps I should release that video instead.”

“Is there actually a video?”

“Just some CCTV footage. Only Mummy would be able to tell that it was us.”

“So… _are_ you going to post anymore names?”

Silva stretched and groaned, which deflated into a sigh once he dropped his arms and slumped in the chair again. “I’ve put it on the backburner for now. I do expect you to remain diligent in distracting me from the task, however.” He smirked at Bond before returning to tapping away at his tablet.

Bond fell back on to the bed sighed. So Silva hadn’t forgotten. Big picture, it was a good thing that he had no immediate intention to continue posting names. But now it was all too apparent that this was all a massive game to him, and Bond had no idea what winning it would even look like for either of them. Still, he knew two things: Silva had wanted to be captured, and how to keep him in check.

He slipped out of bed and strode across the room to stand behind Silva’s chair. He placed a hand on his neck, the man’s Adam’s Apple right at the juncture of his thumb and forefinger. Silva straightened up and put the tablet down on his lap. His pulse remained steady, which meant he wasn’t concerned about Bond actually hurting him. That thought alone made Bond want to do so, so very badly, but he restrained himself.

“Give me one good reason not to drag you over to the bed by your throat and pound your arse raw, so you can’t even sit down in front of a computer for at least a fortnight,” Bond growled.

Silva’s pulse quickened under his grasp. With a hitch in his voice, he replied, “Wouldn’t you know it, I can’t think of a single one.”

“I thought you wouldn’t,” Bond retorted, and he yanked Silva from his chair, tablet tumbling from his lap onto the floor.

~~~

After Bond had been on the island for three weeks, he realized he should probably come to terms with the fact that M probably wasn’t sending anyone after him. This being the second time he had to do that in the past six months actually made it harder to deal with than it had been the first time. Was she expecting him to show up on his own time again? Or had she assumed he had taken Mallory’s advice, going off the grid permanently after the successful termination of a threat? Or did she believe that Bond and his mysterious target had killed each other, that he had died _like she expected you to_ , Silva’s voice supplied in his head.

He wasn’t about to give Silva the satisfaction of letting him know that he had all but given up on M sending anyone after him, but it didn’t really come as much of a surprise when Silva called him out on it.

“Are you using your bad arm, James?” Silva asked over his shoulder. “Is that what passes for a spanking these days?”

“Sounds like someone is asking for some arse-to-mouth instead right now,” Bond retorted, punctuating it with a sharp snap of his hips.

Silva rolled his eyes. “For one thing, I know my arse is cleaner than yours and I still ate you out earlier. For another—” He pulled himself off of Bond’s cock then turned to face him. “I know what it feels like, that terrible dawning realization that she’s not coming for you. After all you’ve done for her, what you’ve sacrificed for her, what you would endure for her…Coming to the understanding that you’re only her favorite for as long as it suits her purposes. When you are more use to her dead than alive, she will gladly take that bargain. There are always new favorites to be found among the recruits. Another orphan throwing himself headlong into mortal peril for Mother England. And someday, against everything he believed possible, she will betray him too.” He reached out to stroke the bullet scars on Bond’s shoulder, then gently pushed him down.

“Lie back, James, and for once in your life, _don’t_ think of England,” he said before wrapping his lips around Bond’s cock.

~~~

Bond spent the next few days in a haze of booze and oxys. Silva left him to it, mostly. At one point it occurred to him that Silva could be wreaking all of manner of havoc while he was too out of it to distract him. He found himself thinking that he didn’t actually care anymore.

“Wanna fuck,” he slurred when Silva dropped by to check on him once.

“If you even could get an erection right now, it would probably sap the rest of your energy to maintain it, and I don’t particularly care to be trapped under an unconscious man no matter what state of hardness he’s in, not if he can’t even use it.”

Bond went quiet for a moment. “You fuck me,” he said finally.

“Not when you're like this,” Silva replied.

“Such a gentleman,” Bond scoffed. “Bullshit, this is how it happens, right? I give up on her, you fuck me, and I'm yours forever. That's how you've been picturing it the whole time, yeah?”

“Of course it is, James. That's why I want you lucid when it finally happens.”

~~~

“Ahhh, James,” Silva sighed as he sunk into Bond as if he were sinking into a warm bath. “You feel magnificent.”

“To you, maybe,” Bond said with a slight wince.

“Shhhhh,” Silva hushed as bent over, flush with Bond's back, to murmur in his ear. “James, I intend to take the best care of you, but I can only do so much if you don't relax. Now,” Silva said as he adjusted the angle of his hips. “Tell me how this feels.” He drew back his hips, then rocked gently forward.

Bond drew a sharp breath, but not of pain or even discomfort. “Not bad, though I could barely feel it, to be honest.”

“Oh?” asked Silva innocently. “And how would you suggest I improve on that?”

“You could go a little hard--,” he trailed off as Silva's ruse dawned on him. “--er.”

“Really?” Silva asked. “Like this?” He rolled his hips again almost exactly how he had done before.

“Harder, you insufferable ass.”

“Harder what?”

Bond grunted as he shifted his hands to better brace himself and keep his hips angled properly. “Fuck. Me. Harder.”

“Ooh Mr. Bond, bossy! I think I like that,” Silva commented. Before Bond could retort, Silva thrust forward, hitting Bond's prostate at just the right angle, but still--

“Harder,” Bond demanded throatily.

“What--”

“Silva!” Bond said sharply. “I fucking swear to god, if you don't fuck me harder right fucking now, I am going back to MI6.”

Silva stilled for a moment before muttering, “Well we can't have that.” And he thrust home.

Bond groaned in approval, his body opening up of its own volition to accept Silva's cock and the warm jolt of pleasure it sent up his spine. “Right there,” he gasped. “Just like that.”

Silva stayed oddly quiet, save for some involuntary grunting and occasional gasps of ecstasy. When Bond took himself in hand, Silva murmured almost inaudibly, “Yes, touch yourself for me, James, stroke your cock while your arse strokes mine.” When Bond came, Silva may as well have been speaking to himself when he said, “That's it, come for me, James. Your arse was made for my cock, you were made to come on my cock.” At which point he sped up his thrusts, pounding away at Bond's still sensitive prostate, until with a near-reverent cry, he came.

He collapsed on top of Bond. Bond could no longer bother to expend the energy to support both their weights, and they both collapsed face down on the bed, Silva still hilted inside him. Finally, he whispered in Bond's ear, “Don't ever even joke about that again.”

It took a moment for Bond to understand what he was talking about. “About MI6? You don't have to worry about that. Don't get me wrong, I'll leave you if I damn well want to, but I'm through with that whole life.”

“Good,” Silva said with a sigh of relief. “As long as _she_ doesn't have you…”

Dozens of questions rose unbidden to Bond's mind, questions he probably should have asked before but had never seemed important enough when he was just expecting to deliver Silva to M for questioning. Now, as they lay in bed together, finally satiated for the first time in over a month, seemed like as good a time as any. Silva curled up against Bond’s side, head on his chest, and Bond traced Silva’s scars entirely by touch. “So what did she do to you, exactly?”

Silva took a deep, shuddering breath. He had wanted to have this conversation so many times before, but it always seemed too difficult and painful, it was never exactly the “right moment”. Neither was this one, but if he couldn’t say it when he was in James’s arms, when would he ever find the strength to say any of it out loud? “I only ever did what she told me to do. Where I went wrong was continuing to do it even after it became politically uncomfortable for the Foreign Office. But I didn’t work for them. I worked for her…”

Bond listened carefully through Silva’s whole story--the long pauses as he tried to get some words out, the crying jags where they wouldn’t stop coming out, and everything in between. At the end of it all, the most Bond could think to say in M’s defense was that those were all her calls to make. She had done her job, but then, so had Tiago.

“So, what did you have planned for her once I had brought you back to Britain?”

Silva snorted wetly, “I suppose I wasn’t subtle enough about that, was I, after they failed to come get you? Ah, no matter.” He shook his head. “It’s too late to try again. There was a public hearing, I was going to escape and kill her at it. I wanted--no, I needed to look her in the eye one last time, for her to know I was the one killing her.”

“She’d still know it was you if you killed her some other time and place,” Bond pointed out

Silva shrugged slightly. “She’ll be retired soon, and it wouldn’t be the same, to sneak up on old woman in her dressing gown, washing her teacups.”

Bond chuckled. “I find that image very hard to believe.”

“Trust me, so do I. But unless I hear differently…” Silva trailed off.

Bond nodded. “I suppose there’s still plenty of ‘our own secret missions’ around the South China Sea to pick from, we don’t need to get involved in MI6 affairs ever again.”

“‘Our’?” Silva asked, hope seeping into his voice.

“Of course, I refuse to be some trophy boy-toy of yours.”

“I suppose I shouldn’t let you have too much time to think about leaving me, no? Better to wear you out between fucks, yes?” Silva suggested as he began kissing his way down Bond’s torso.

“Sounds like a plan to me.” Bond replied, lying back with his hands behind his head.

“I want to know what your delicious hole tastes like when filled with my cream.”

" _Fuck_ , yes you do."

It became difficult to string more than three words together for a couple of hours after that.

~~~

As Silva watched over a sleeping Bond, he chuckled quietly to himself. Pills, drink, and sex. It had almost been too easy. Yes, it would have been so satisfying to burst into Mummy’s hearing and humiliate her one last time before killing her, but stealing his usurper away from her was plenty satisfactory--and satisfying. Who knows, there may yet be another opportunity to get his revenge. And how sweet would it be to see the expression on her face when she saw Bond at his side.

(Blofeld was going to be furious with him, of course, but that’s what he gets for telling people Silva was now officially “part of” SPECTRE just because he accepted that stupid ring...)

**Author's Note:**

> In case you're not up on your prescription painkillers, paracetamol is basically Tylenol, and it is actually really bad for your liver, but oxycodone is an opiod so that's more of an issue. Even at the lowest dosage of Percocet (which lbr is not what Silva has), three at a time is too much.


End file.
